


Ride of Your Life

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-19
Updated: 2005-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi





	1. Chapter 1

Billy leaned down to climb into the limo, then yelped as Dom’s heavy, clinging limbs reached for him. He lurched forward, off-balance, and ended up with his face in Dom’s chest—Dom’s stomach—Dom’s crotch—as Dom leaned up and over him to pull the door closed. 

“Take it away,” Dom commanded the driver with a regal wave of his hand; Billy was busy scrambling backward to get his face out of Dom’s lap.

He settled back on the seat, aiming a raised eyebrow at Dom as the sleek black car pulled away from the kerb. Usually that was all it took to calm him down, but tonight—no. No, Dom was leering forthrightly at Billy, scooting closer and closer until he was leaning right into Billy’s face—Billy’s _space_. 

“What’s a nice hobbit like you doing in a dirty limo like this?” Dom asked. His breath was warm and powerful, alcohol and his own scent ghosting moistly across Billy’s mouth.

Billy looked away nervously, fumbling at the little control panel to close the privacy window between the driver and the back seat. “Hush now, Dom, you’ll hurt the poor driver’s feelings,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “This limo’s quite clean.” They rounded a corner and Dom pressed right against Billy.

“And you’re not really that nice,” Dom said, sliding one hand across the front of Billy’s shirt. He smirked, his eyes dark as sin and twice as deep. 

“Libel, black libel,” Billy murmured, moving Dom’s hand; it slid right back, though, curving under his open jacket, around his ribs. “Or is it slander? Which one is spoken?”

“I dunno.” Dom shifted closer, half-turning on the gleaming dark leather of the seat and pulling one leg up so it lay across Billy’s lap. “I’d say bad things about you in writing or out loud.” He pushed his nose into Billy’s neck.

Billy squirmed, trying to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. He settled for holding Dom’s shoulders in an attempt to settle him. “Some best friend you are.”

“Mmm, you’ve no idea,” Dom whispered. Billy shivered as Dom rubbed little circles on his side. His other hand was at work, too, worming its way under the jacket from the other side. “I’d do anything for you, Bills.”

“Like giving me some room, y’great numptie?” Billy shuddered, a bit of panic battling the little coal burning at the bottom of his belly. He gasped as Dom licked his neck, wet and hot and then cool when the younger man laughed across it. “You’re affectionate tonight, eh?”

“M’affectionate all the time with you, Billy.” Dom lunged suddenly, ended up straddling Billy’s lap. And oh Christ, he was hard, his erection blindingly obvious as he rocked into Billy’s (swiftly reacting) crotch. “Always affectionate with you.” His face was back against Billy’s neck, tongue lapping curiously at his adam’s apple as Billy tried hard to be still, tried to calm the trembling that wanted to fly from his heart to his hands.

This wasn’t a good idea. Was it? No. Billy’s three small whiskies were confusing him, though, and somehow his hands were running up and down the back of Dom’s shirt (his jacket a crumpled heap of fabric far away on the other side of the seat, tie a faint memory, stuffed into a pocket somewhere). “You’re affectionate with everyone.” Soothing, that’s what he was doing, just soothing Dom, not caressing him at all.

“You, Billy, always you,” Dom slurred into his neck. “Always affectionate with _you_. Always wanna sit with you, climb on you, play with you.” He began pressing open-mouthed kisses up and down Billy’s neck. “Don’t want them. Just you.” The limo accelerated and Dom tightened his knees on either side of Billy’s thighs.

His fingers, nimble even now, picked and plucked at Billy’s tie until it was loose and crooked, picked and plucked at one button and then another, and Dom kissed the underside of Billy’s chin—when had Billy put his head back so very accommodatingly?—his adam’s apple again, the little notch between his collarbones.

“Dom—” Billy sighed.

“Had a hard-on for you all night, Bill.” Dom moved to one side, pushed Billy’s collar down and licked the skin where his shoulder joined his neck. Billy shivered, fingers splayed helpless on Dom’s back. “Good thing, too,” Dom said, snorting with laughter, grinding himself against Billy. “I’ve had enough that it’d take me three hours to come anyway. Just means it’ll happen pretty soon now—” he latched his teeth on the tendon of Billy’s neck and groaned as Billy’s eyes crashed shut and his mouth opened and closed on air— “thank god.” His tongue slid over the shallow marks of his teeth.

“Dom, Dommie, what’re you doing,” Billy managed to say, gasp, moan as Dom’s hands skittered over the thin cotton of his shirt. “You’re drunk, my Dom, we can’t—” he yipped as Dom’s thumbs found his nipples and pressed them in a tight little circle.

“We can, we can,” Dom said, rocking steadily against him now. “Kiss me, Bill,” he said, and he didn’t wait for permission—smashed his mouth against Billy’s and plunged his tongue in, deep and messy and wet. 

Billy made a terrified, muffled sound and then moaned again, spreading his legs under Dom’s tightly clamped thighs, letting his head fall back, mouth fall open, eyes fall closed again as his hands slid inexorably up into Dom’s hair. Their tongues met in a slippery tangle of desperation and curiosity, twining and sliding around each other as they breathed fast and hard through their noses.

Dom broke the kiss to bury his face in Billy’s neck again, groans tumbling from his lips as he humped Billy’s lap urgently. “God, Billy, wanted you so long, but ’m’always too scared. Just let me—let me—” He bit Billy again.

“Owfuckohhh,” Billy yelped, cried, sighed. “But Dom, why didn’t you ever say anything?” The vehicle turned another corner.

“Almost there,” Dom answered, didn’t answer—was he talking about the limo or himself? He slid one hand down Billy’s chest and between their bodies; Billy wanted to protest the agonizing loss of Dom’s erection rocking against his own, but suddenly Dom’s fingers were wrapped around the ridge in Billy’s trousers and all thoughts of protest—all _thoughts_ —flew directly out the window into the chilly New Zealand air. Billy cursed and drove his hips upward into Dom’s grip.

“Dom—” He opened his eyes, found Dom looking right into them. Dom’s smeared eyeliner made him look vulnerable and soft; his jutting jaw, stubble-shadowed, belied it. His mouth wavered between the two extremes, soft and then hard, smirking and cheeky and frightened and—Billy leaned forward, claimed his lips again.

Dom’s hand left Billy’s erection and slid up and around, to the back of his neck; the younger man’s hips resumed their rhythm as they kissed again.

“Billy—” Dom dropped his head again, ground against Billy hard, over and over, panting into Billy’s neck. Billy’s hands slipped down Dom’s back to his arse, curved to fit those two sweet curves and pulled Dom forward, supported him as he whimpered, gasped, bucked. “I’m about to come, Bill,” Dom said, his voice strangely clear, and then he did—Billy felt Dom suck in a great lungful of air and hold it, felt his body shudder as his back arched. 

“Billy, ah, Billy,” Dom sighed into his neck. Billy’s hands shook as they moved to Dom’s back; he held Dom close, aching with want and fear and something else—some new, nagging thing that tasted strange and tantalizing, odd and different.

“Billy.”

“Yes?”

“I think the limo’s stopped.” 

Billy lifted his head and looked out the window. “We’re at your house, Dommie.”

Dom snickered. “Fuck,” he said.

Billy began laughing. “Do you—do you want me to come in?” He didn’t know if he wanted Dom to say yes or no—his giggles threatened to turn painful as all his indecision and panic tried to come bubbling out his nose.

“No.” Dom licked Billy’s neck, long and slow and damp, from shoulder to just under his ear. It shut off the giggles like a spigot. “I want to talk to you when I’m sober. I want to fall asleep and wake up and see if I dreamed all this.”

“Dom…”

Dom put his mouth right up to Billy’s ear. “I want to leave you wanting me and I want you to come over in the morning and crawl into bed with me and tell me it wasn’t a dream, you do want me. That’s what I want, Billy.”

Billy squeezed his eyes shut. “You’ll be horribly hungover,” he said softly, one side of his mouth curling upward.

“I hear giving blowjobs is a great cure for hangovers,” Dom said.

The driver knocked on the privacy window as Billy’s jaw dropped. Dom leaned one way to grab his jacket; leaned the other and opened the door from where he sat in Billy’s lap. He sat back and stared at Billy. He looked drunk, exhausted, messy. Absolutely edible. 

“So. Tomorrow?”

Billy nodded, mute. Dom climbed off him and staggered out of the limo, holding his coat in front of his trousers. He shut the door and then pressed his lips to the window in a brief, smashed kiss. Billy giggled and sagged back against the seat as the car pulled away from the kerb.

His cock ached with fullness, and there was a damp spot on the placket of his trousers, not to mention his neck. His shirt was half-open, hair on end, tie askew and jacket rumpled. Fear was still making his nape prickle and stomach twist, but the new thing was counteracting it, warming him from tiptoes to the crown of his head. Billy stared out the window at the late-night streets and touched his mouth wonderingly.

 _Hope_. That’s what the new thing was, and it tasted perfect.


	2. Perfect Timing

So Dom’d got out of the limo at about… two o’ clock. Drunk off his arse, but he’d need to shower—no. Just clean himself, climb out of the sticky trousers and run a damp flannel over himself. Then he’d fall straight into bed. Maybe he’d take some aspirins first. Drink some water. So he’d be in bed by two-thirty. And sleep, surely he’d fall straight to sleep, so say two-thirty. Give him how much sleep? Nine hours, yeah, that would be the decent thing to do. So Billy shouldn’t go over before eleven-thirty in the morning—it would be suicide to do otherwise.

Billy lay in bed doing the math again and again. 

He’d already taken care of his own pre-bedtime needs. Out of the limo, into the house, lock the door: check. Push down his trousers and wank in the unlit hall: check. (Thinking of Dom, voice breath taste pressure heat: check.) Slump back against the door and half-laugh, half-cry at his own stupidity, his need and disbelief and wildly foolish belief: check. And then the quick laundry list of actually getting into bed—clothes off, water, aspirins, a wee and a quick hand-washing and under the covers: check.

His room was dark, but Billy’s eyes had long since adjusted, and he studied the fine lines in the plaster of the ceiling as he calculated: Two-thirty plus nine hours equaled eleven-thirty.

Nine hours.

But really, did Dom need nine hours of sleep? Surely eight would do as well. Surely if Billy came over at ten-thirty in the morning, Dom would be awake. Sitting at his kitchen table, probably, with tea and maybe a piece of toast and jam. He’d be awake, of course he would. He’d look tired but clean, because he’d have taken a shower already. His hair would be damp, lying flat over his skull, and tonight’s shadows of smeared eyeliner would be replaced by the shadows of being hungover. But he’d be on the road to recovery by ten-thirty, and he wouldn’t mind if Billy showed up with a tentative knock and the newspaper in hand.

Billy shifted and turned over. He kept picturing Dom in his sunlit kitchen, and he kept wondering what Dom would say. Would he make a joke? Would he pretend he didn’t remember? What if he really _didn’t_ remember? Billy bit his lip and chewed on his thumbnail. No. Dom had been trollied, but not black-out-pass-out-can’t-remember trollied. If he could come—and he had, Billy had the damp ocean scent of it all over the front of his trousers to prove it—then he could damn well remember it. 

Right?

God. Eight hours.

Sometimes when Billy’d been drinking, he couldn’t sleep well. That might happen to Dom, too. What if Dom woke up after only seven hours? He’d had an awful lot to drink. Billy was certain, sure of it in his gut, that Dom would never be able to sleep soundly for eight hours. Seven hours would be the most. He’d wake up, desperate for water and chemicals—caffeine, analgesics, vitamins—and if Billy got there at nine-thirty, Dom would already be rummaging around in his medicine cabinet for natural and unnatural remedies. Billy could make him tea and orange juice. Yes, Billy was certain that seven hours was the most Dom could possibly sleep. At nine-thirty, Billy would be knocking gently on Dom’s door, and Dom would greet him with a bleary smile and “thank god, I thought I’d have to have my tea without milk” (because Billy would bring milk over, along with the Sunday paper) and they would go into the kitchen and figure things out.

Seven hours. Billy could live with seven hours.

But then again…

Time shrank from both ends.

Billy lay awake calculating, imagining, celebrating and berating himself for far too long. Just as the first grey light of morning began bleeding through the curtains he dozed off into a sleep that was at once overwhelming and shallow. His brain plunged through dream after dream, fingers twitching and eyelids flickering; but when he did come awake, it was almost the hardest thing he’d ever done, inexorable and draining, like dragging himself out of tar, slogging through the mire to emerge exhausted and muddy and weighted down from head to toe.

It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Billy had to go to Dom’s house _right then_.

He staggered out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans from the wrinkled pile on the floor. A t-shirt that actually came from the bureau, and then trainers—no socks. He stopped in the loo to brush his teeth, pee, wash his hands. He shied away from the horror that confronted him in the mirror. Holy shit. Well, who cared? Billy left his hair standing straight up and only dashed his face with cold water once. It had the feel of ritual fatalism to it. Either Dom would still want him, or he wouldn’t, and Billy looking dapper (at seven-fucking-thirty in the morning) wouldn’t make the difference.

Four blocks to Dom’s house, but Billy detoured to the news-agent’s for a paper. He already had a carton of milk in his hand, and the salesman looked at him strangely, but Billy smiled at him—now _that_ felt odd, how about _that_ for an artificial smile?—and took the newspaper in his other hand and set off again.

He knocked on Dom’s door softly. His calculations had been based on fiction; Billy knew that, of course he did. He knew Dom wouldn’t be awake, wouldn’t want the milk or the newspaper. He hoped Dom would want Billy himself, but even that felt like fiction in the hot December morning, with sunlight on his back and the closed, quiet house in front of him.

Momentum and his own persistent need kept him moving. It was momentum that had made him pocket Dom’s spare key before he left his own little house, after all, and now Billy shifted the milk awkwardly to the hand holding the fat Sunday newspaper and dug that key out. He slid it into the lock and turned, opened the door and stepped inside.

The hall was dim except for the bright square of sunlight from the window in the door. 

“Dom?” Billy said. Not loudly. There was no answer. Billy toed off his shoes and left them there. Dom’s shiny black shoes lay abandoned to one side, next to his trainers and a pair of flip-flops with sand scattered under them like grains of salt.

Dom’s house was small, as small as Billy’s own. Just two bedrooms, no dining room, small lounge. The big kitchen was its only conceit, and Billy padded in and blinked in the dazzle, set the milk and the newspaper on the table—the fingers of one hand smeared with ink—and turned to stand with his hands on the counter, looking out the big window over the sink. He could see trees and other houses, and if he leaned to the left—he did—the harbour, blue and shining under the blue sky out there.

He stood there for a long time, wishing Dom would come down the hall and find him. Billy listened to the pleasant ticking of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator. He heard airplanes twice, and the occasional sound of distant traffic, but it was eight a.m. on a Sunday morning, and Wellington was quiet. Dom’s house was quiet. 

He wanted Dom to come in, to see him and maybe come up behind him and put his arms around Billy’s waist, to lay his scruffy chin on Billy’s t-shirted shoulder, and that would make things easier, because then it would be Dom. Again. Dom’s bravery, and Billy could stay safe, stay a coward, have his cake and… Billy smirked to himself, just for an instant, a twitch of his cheek muscles. Have his Dom and. Yeah. But the rest of the joke depended on last night and this morning, and on Dom being brave.

But Dom was asleep, and Billy needed to know, and Billy guessed it was his turn to be brave.

So he filled a glass with water and turned away from the brilliant harbour and the blue sky and left the kitchen. The lounge and hall were shadowy, one facing west, the other windowless, and Dom slept on the west side of the house, too. Billy scrubbed his hand through his hair and pushed open Dom’s bedroom door.

He was asleep, of course. Lying on his side, facing the door. He’d rucked the covers about and sprawled untidily, one arm hanging off the edge of the mattress, the duvet draped over his legs and half his back. His mouth was open, and his breath whistled slightly.

Billy put the glass silently on the bedside table and pulled off his jeans. He wasn’t thinking when he did it, because if he thought, he’d retreat—at least to the kitchen and the newspaper and waiting for Dom to wake up, and maybe to his own house and fear and self-loathing. So he didn’t think, he just…did stuff. Took off his jeans, then, and walked round to the far side of the bed. He lifted the covers without looking and slid under them. Breathed deeply and shifted over, closer and closer, until he was right next to Dom, who radiated heat like a furnace.

Billy turned onto his side, toward Dom’s back, and cautiously put his hand on Dom’s waist. Dry warm skin. Billy scooted a little further and tucked himself against Dom’s back, bending his knees to fit them into the angle of Dom’s bent legs.

Dom was naked. 

When Billy finally lay his cheek between Dom’s shoulder blades, his breathing changed. A hitch and a sigh, and Dom turned over, slowly, until he was nose to nose with Billy. His eyes were closed, last night’s eyeliner a black smear beneath each arc of lashes. 

“Morning,” Dom said, and Billy swallowed hard, his nose prickling as relief crashed over him so hard he choked, tumbled in its surf and looking for the way back up to air.

He found it eventually, though his eyes were still stinging with salt from its surf. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Dom smacked his lips and ducked his head, tucking his chin under Billy’s. “…Time is it?”

“Oh. I, um, I dunno. Eight-fifteen, maybe?” Billy giggled silently and then stopped himself, breathing deeply. “Early. I brought you some water.” He reached for Dom’s cheek, his chin, and pulled his head back up. “And milk for your tea.” His fingers left an inky smudge on Dom’s cheekbone. “And a newspaper.”

Dom opened his eyes. “And you.” He smiled. His eyes were as red as Billy’s, the irises startlingly blue.

“Well. Yeah.” Billy smiled back. “That, too.”

Dom closed his eyes and kept smiling at Billy for a while. “I think I’ll go pee,” he said finally. “And brush my teeth and have some water and aspirin.”

Billy nodded.

“And then I’ll come back in here and crawl back under the covers and kiss you.”

“Okay. That sounds good.”

Dom stretched and then tucked himself around Billy for a moment. He stayed there for a time, and Billy moved his hand up and down Dom’s back in slow, smooth strokes until finally Dom sighed and pushed away, rolling out of the bed and standing up. He stretched again and laughed at Billy’s stare. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Take your shirt off.”

Billy sat up obediently and began to pull it off. 

“Take off your pants, too,” Dom said loudly, but by the time Billy emerged from his t-shirt, Dom had left the room. Billy tossed the shirt away, pushed his pants down and off. Curled up under the covers and listened to the water running in the toilet. Waited, and thought his timing had obviously been perfect.


End file.
